Prologue
"Excuse me, miss, are you Marianne Randal?"
The Montana dryness cast illuminating heat-waves across the vast expanse of desert, causing Marianne Randal to squint her eyes in the direction of rising dust-cloud to where a blurry figure was leaning out the window of a black SUV and calling to her, apparently.
The SUV, one of two unmarked Jeep Wrangler's parked half-hazardly among the other vehicles, sat like shining knights among dilapidated peasants. For a brief moment, she wondered how much sponsorship one of those would bring if sold, but then quickly shoved the thought from her mind when she noticed a shadow peek up from behind her.
She furrowed her brow at the Jeeps again, and then looked down to the tailgate of the Chevy pickup she'd been driving all day and grabbed her messenger bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, Marianne situated her Ray Ban aviator's on top of her head and rubbed her eyes-adding dried dirt onto her already dusty cheeks.
The figure beside her draped his arms over the bed of the pickup and squinted from beneath the brim of his fedora hat. Dr. Alan Grant, paleontologist and novelist, survivalist extraordinaire; or, as she knew him simply, paleontologist, teacher, friend of her father's, and boss. Dr. Grant puffed out his cheeks in a dramatic exhale and groaned quietly, mumbling.
"Friends of yours?"
She shook her head, "No,"
Marianne watched man in a overly tacky vest, jeans, and button-down shirt hurry towards her, as hurriedly as he could minding the rocks and pits in the desert floor. He stumbled over a hole only to step head-first into a bush, squawking in protest. Shaking her head, she snapped the gum she'd had in her mouth since morning and slammed the tailgate of the Chevy back into place.
The man brushed off his pants and hurried towards her, looking irritably behind him at the bush. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him as he approached the green Chevy, grant watching him behind sunglasses with a hard, unapproachable look-as he usually did when he was dirty, exhausted, and frustrated.
"My apologies," he said, out of breath and reaching up to swipe at his beaded brow with the cuff of his sleeve, "Am I," he puffed, "Am I correct in assuming that you are indeed Miss Marianne Randal?"
Marianne snapped her gum and tossed her messenger bag into the cab of the truck. She shrugged her shoulders and then gave a look to Dr. Grant, who gave her a small smile. She looked back to the man, who was red-faced and frankly pathetic looking, and gave him a half-smile, "Well that depends. You from the IRS or something?"
He furrowed his brow, straightened his glasses, and looked between her and Grant, "I beg your pardon?" His English accent was unmistakable, and he looked sorely out of place. Imagining him in a suit with a martini glass shot Marianne into the reality he was a businessman, or a man of privilege, not an expeditioner as he was...outfitted to be. "No, Miss, I assure you I am not from any governmental association-"
She waved him off, "Good. Then yeah, I'm Marianne. Who exactly are you?"
He bristled, then reached out for the side of the truck, still trying to catch his breath. Marianne shot a look over to the Jeeps he'd arrived in, noticing a nice posse of suited men, all carrying guns inside their suit jackets (which she assumed were supposed to be cleverly hidden), arms crossed at their chests and staring at her. She looked down to her feet and then waited for the man's reply.
"Forgive me," he waved his hand in front of his face as if to create a breeze, "this blasted heat-"
"Who're you representing?" Grant finally piped up from across the bed of the pickup. He looked agitated and removed his sunglasses, letting them rest in his hands over the bed. He examined them blankly and then gave the man a look, "If anyone?"
The man nodded, "Yes, yes, good; straight to the point," he stood tall and looked to her, then to Grant, nervousness and anxiety rattling through his eyes. Marianne suddenly felt sorry for him and leaned against the truck, the door to the cab still open. "I am here representing Miss Claire Dearing." He cleared his throat and fumbled around his vest pockets, as if in search.
She gave him a "so what" look, "Ok. Am I supposed to know who that is?"
He chuckled, "Considering your...line of work, perhaps." He shot a look to Grant, "I will assume, however, that you have heard of one Simon Masrani?"
Indeed. Marianne's mouth went dry at this and she shot an abrupt look to Grant, who frowned objectively to the man, working to unzip a stuck zipper on his ridiculous vest. Finally he managed to free it and wiggled his fingers inside, grabbing at a folded piece of paper. He extended it to Marianne and she snatched it from him, working to unfolds it. She nodded to reassure the man she did know who Simon Masrani was.
"Yes, I do. John Hammond entrusted his company and his research to Masrani before his death some ten years ago. He's been developing his..." she gave a weary look to Grant, "...project for some time. I hear he's made ground-breaking research in genes and coding and all that." Not that she really knew, or cared. She'd been working for Grant as a "field analysist", or what she called a "field assistant". Her primarily responsibilities was filing reports and conducting debriefing's and presentations, editing research and perfecting analyses. She didn't know a lick about coding, or gene splicing, or archeology, or paleontology. The extent of Marianne's knowledge ran as deep as what Grant explained to her, which wasn't much, considering he was just as much a workaholic as she was.
Marianne gave the man a confused look, and unfolded the paper. She found it to to be a pamphlet and not just a solitary piece.
Her eye's shot down to the glossy front page.
Immediately she straightened, breath catching in her throat. Heat rose into her chest and her heart began to hammer. Mouth parching, she felt as if she hadn't drank in a decade. Marianne's eyes rapidly scanned the front page, a brightly colored, happy, enticing picturesque of smiles, amusement park rides, and modern architecture. Enveloped in an array of green's only recognized as jungle foliage, she scanned the logo; a sleek silver and blue hue imaged to look like engraved stone, sat the blaring words of warning. Every inch of her froze in realization, warmed in excitement, and finally brazened with fury.
Jurassic World.
Her eyes shot up to the man, who was grinning at her, perspiration dripping between his eyes and down his nose. She swallowed thickly, dared not a look at Grant, and then looked back down at the pamphlet. She tried to hide the trembling in her hands but couldn't, and then she asked the man in a dry, somewhat calm voice.
"What in God's name is this?"
Marianne was tempted to open the pamphlet, but she couldn't; not with Grant standing right there. Not with his experience and his testimony and his horror story lurking right behind her. She blinked slowly, then the man chuckled and approached her as if he'd just cornered a great trophy, and plucked the pamphlet from her hands.
"Allow me to explain, Miss Randal."
. . .
"Nice. Very nice, hon. Now, easy..."
Owen Grady couldn't have broken the stare he had on the amber-colored eyes in front of him if his life depended on it. Rolling his lower lip inward and knawing on it gently helped, he hoped, mask the trembling of his facial muscles, if not the trembling spiking throughout his entire body.
It was a balmy afternoon, but he might as well have been cooking alive inside a boiler, because he was sweating bullets. He was slick with perspiration, trembling with what he hoped was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. He took half a step back, his boots grinding into the dirt beneath him. Everything seemed louder and amplified down here, far more than it did above on his walkways and catwalks. Owen wouldn't sworn on his grave that the air was echoing with the ramming of his heart against his ribcage. It might as well have been a brass drum. Not that he would've been able to hear that either, given the blood barreling through his ears like grenades.
She stepped closer, eyeing him cautiously, head tipped to one side as if trying to figure him out.
As if she needed to.
Movement, from his left. Whipping his head, he sent the other female hissing and slinking back half a step, obviously caught her in her plan to flank him. He gave her a slick half-smile and shook his head, then rounded his raised hand to her as if to hold her off.
"Nuh huh, baby, I saw that," he smiled at her, her his heart jerking at his calm platitudes. These things couldn't be sweet talked or charmed, nosiree. These things had one thing on their minds, and it wasn't his dashing good looks either. It was the rumbling of their instincts cooking in their brains, urging them forward, demanding answers as to why this male in front of them possessed such dominance over them, why he was different, and why they weren't supposed to rip his insides out and let them fall to the dirt.
Another hiss, this time from his right.
Owen gave his attention to the third female, giving her a smile before putting up his other hand to the one directly in front of him. They squealed loudly like they did when furious, then squawked at him agitatedly. He took another half step back, unwilling to drop his gaze to his feet or over his shoulder.
His stomach did somersaults within his gut-if he even had a gut left at this point-and he swallowed. He felt dry, so dry and hot down here with them, and he saw movement coming at his three o'clock side. The bushes rustled. He shot his attention to the bushes, only to find his beta hissing at him and growling in low, warning tones-upset she'd been discovered.
"Stop it," he frowned at her, "knock it off, Blue."
She looked to another female, they shared a look, and then grumbled and growled at him some more. The one directly in front of him took a step forward, fingers twitching with their massively long, talon-like claws. Owen noticed, but stiffened his face, and edged towards the fence more carefully.
Barry, his assistant, was at the gate controls, watching. Owen could see from the corner of his eye the man's body, slick with perspiration, anchored still and unmoving. The air suddenly got heavy as Blue came out of the bushes and took her place slightly to the right of the other female, Charlie. Owen eyed her, then noticed the third, Delta, trying to sneak up on his left again. He waved at her and pointed a finger warningly.
"I see you there, baby girl," he chuckled, "Close the gate, Barry." He said strongly. The females all hissed at him, eyeing carefully, fingers twitching. Blue tapped the largest claw on her foot as she stepped towards him, eyes steady, mouth half open and dripping with salivation.
His heart continued to pound.
"Close the gate? You insane, man?" Barry said calmly. Any sudden raise in decibel could send these girls into a frenzy, breaking any trust he'd established with them since birth. He nodded slowly, locking eyes briefly with Charlie, then moving to look at Delta. He lowered on his haunches, reaching behind him slowly. Jarring to a stop, Owen hit the gate, and sank lower to his haunches now. He squatted, sweat dripping into his eyes. He licked his lower lip, mustache wet with sweat.
"Just close it," Owen hissed at him.
Suddenly, Blue let out a piercing cry, jarring Owen and bristling him. He closed his eyes, let out a slowly and steady breathe, and he heard Barry punching in codes. Inhaling a sharp breathe, he opened his eyes to find they'd moved closer, almost within touching distance. Unmoving, trembling under the strain, the lowering track sparred to life with a mechanical whine and gate began to lower.
In a flash, Owen dropped, ducked, and rolled under the gate. It lowered slowly still, and the four girls lunged, screaming and screeching and growling, until they hit the gate, rattling it and reaching through it to him. Their teeth flashed and they clawed at the dirt, the gate thundering into place and then quieting. Owen scurried from the gate, staring at them, breathing hard and trying to focus on anything other than the blood pulsating through his ears.
They stared, vindictive.
Echo, the last female, screeched in fury.
Barry scrambled to his aide, grabbing his arms from behind and hauling him up. Unwilling to let his back to the cage, Owen stared at them and shook his head. So, they'd almost killed him and another man-again. Not really the first time. A bird somewhere in the foliage cawed, and they four of them gave their full attention to the rustling treetops. With a snort, Blue led the pack into the dense plant-life as if nothing had happened.
His first time in the cage. On the floor.
With them.
Once they left, Owen spun on his heel and shrugged off his vest, which was slick with perspiration, his shirt having soaked through. Barry scrambled, following, and the outer security fence dropped behind them with a clang. Owen draped the vest over his Triumph bike, then ran his dirty fingers through his damp hair. Puffing out a breathe, he felt his heart pulsating, wondering if it could be seen through his shirt.
"You're insane," Barry chastised him, out of breathe and slick, "Completely insane, my man! They could've killed you-"
Owen spun towards him, a smirk on his face, and patted his hand against the man's well muscled pecks, "Ah, but they didn't, Barry. They didn't." He grabbed his vest, plucked the keys from the bike, and hustled towards the stairs leading up to his office and the containment yard. He took them two at a time, Barry right behind.
"But they would've-"
Owen shot him a sly look, "They didn't, Barry. There's something there," he slapped his hand into his palm as if to prove a point, stalking towards his office, "Something. I've gotten to them, inside their heads. They know me."
"Yeah, they know you as a food source,"
Owen shook his head, barreling through the unlocked door, the door jarring open and bouncing off the wall. He reached up mid-stride and clicked the overhead fan on, Barry stopping abruptly to stare at the metal desk with his computer. Owen retrieved a box from the computer chair and let it drop to the floor melodramatically. Barry pointed at the desk, watching Owen scramble around the clutter for a pen and paperpad.
"Man," Barry wrinkled his brow, "Your desk-"
"-is an utter disaster area, much like everything else about Owen."
Both men froze, Barry spun around, Owen's eyes locked on the doorframe to the adjoining office. He frowned at the figure standing in it, hands on her hips, bright red hair perfectly styled and placed in a pulled back braid. Ash grey pleated pants completed a dark black button down silk shirt, with white-heels and a matching belt. He straightened, twirling the pen in his fingers, still unable to locate a paperpad.
"Sorry to catch you boys off guard," she sauntered toward them, "But I came by to talk to you for a second." she pointed at Owen, "That is if you can count that high."
"Very funny, Claire," he rolled his eyes at her, returning to his search, "But I am a bit busy,"
"I heard," she said quickly, "But that's not the reason I'm here."
Owen squatted, popped open a drawer, and began riffling through it. At her statement he looked up to her, put a fist to his heart and made a mock-pained expression, "What? You weren't concerned about my safety?" Spotting a sticky note stack, he plucked it out and abruptly stood beside her, kicking the drawer closed, "Not even a little bit?"
She gave him a smirk, "Not really."
"Ouch,"
She rolled her eyes, "I'm here because of this," she moved her hands in a circle around his desk, "You're two weeks behind on progress reports and analysis. Your feed-tracks are God knows how unkempt and you haven't filed a time card in weeks-"
Owen shot a look to his desk and then shrugged his shoulders, "It gets done,"
She gave him a look, her piercing green eyes flashing, "Yeah, unprofessionally, not on time, and sloppily. That's not how we run Jurassic World, Owen. You know that. Everything needs to be kept in place, on time, on course; otherwise, we loose-"
"-control, yeah, yeah I know," he waved her off, "I'll get on it, Claire. It's just been busy and everything."
She crossed her arms, cocking a hip and giving him a look, "Yeah, uh-huh, sure. You're working with animals that need constant observation and analysis, Owen. You can't afford to miss a beat just because one of them gulps down an oversized rat differently than they did yesterday."
He frowned.
"So," she grabbed a stack of files and then glanced at them. Cocking a brow, she tossed them back onto the mass pile of paperwork. The fan fluttered above them, raising the edge of a few stray papers. Owen still had his pen and paper at hand, studying Claire. She moved towards the door.
"So?"
"So," she frowned at him, "I've taken it upon myself to get you a field assistant. Someone to take notes, file weekly reports, and keep this," she gestured around the room, "under control." She grabbed the doorknob, then moved her hand back as if it were a dead animal, "She'll be here hopefully in a few weeks."
"You hired me a secretary?"
She smiled at him devilishly, "No, Owen; a field assistant. She's good at what she does, and she'll keep her eye on you two," she shot a look between them.
Feed her to the girls is what I'll do, Owen frowned at her and then glared.
As if reading his mind, she stated, "And you'll be nice to her, right? Show her around, make sure she knows the ropes, all that. "
Barry shared a look with him, brows rose. Owen sighed, shifted his weight, and tossed the pen and paper on the pile of unfiled paperwork. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and groaned, letting out an exasperated breathe. He nodded, shifted his fingers to peer at Claire through them, and sighed.
"Yeah. I'll play nice."
She nodded. "Good. I'll see you sometime in a few weeks."
He chuckled, crossing his arms high on his chest, "Think you can stay away that long, Claire?"
He sneered at him, "Bite me, Owen."
He laughed, "I may be able to help you with that."
She stalked out the door, throwing her hands in the air, "You're impossible, Owen Grady!"
He hurried towards the door, leaned against the frame, and watched her hurry towards her Mercedes. She slammed the door, spun out of the yard, and was gone down the road back to her little control room in her little control-freak world.